The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton by Elizabeth Speller, Georgina Capel Page B

and his face was transformed. ‘Patrick Easton,’ he said, shaking Laurence’s hand warmly. ‘Which you may have guessed.’
    ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Laurence said. ‘I think everybody was expecting you this evening. Lydia’s resting. The others are on some jaunt to Marlborough.’
    Patrick looked amused. ‘I am much earlier than I said I’d be. Actually it’s rather good to make my entrance undeclared. If we could rustle up some tea I’d actually treasure a rest. It may be a lovely day here but the crossing was rough yesterday and the car I’ve borrowed was rougher still.’
    ‘I think Maggie’s gone home,’ Laurence said, ‘but I’ll go and sort out some tea. Why don’t you sit in the library?’ Then he added, ‘It feels rather strange to be inviting you to relax in your own home.’
    ‘It’s not my home,’ Patrick said. ‘It was never mine, Mr Bartram. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave my case here, then come and play kitchen maids with you in the scullery.’
    Rather to Laurence’s relief, tea turned out to be a complicated process which did away with the demand for instant conversation. Vast kitchen cupboards contained fish kettles, huge jelly moulds and silver chafing dishes—a culinary armoury from times long past—but failed to reveal any china suitable for a simple tea. Between them they eventually unearthed an ancient teapot, black with tannin inside, two delicate but chipped cups and saucers and, under a beaded muslin in the larder, a large jug which held what Laurence hoped was fresh milk. As they brought the rather battered tray into the library, Laurence looked out; he could just see William and David moving out of sight at the far end of the maze. He thought David was laughing.
    Patrick shivered theatrically, although he still had a thick woollen scarf wound around his neck. He moved to the fireplace, which was laid for the evening, kneeled down and took some matches out of his pocket. Laurence watched him light the paper spills.
    Later, Laurence came to think of Patrick’s default expression as sardonic and often challenging, possibly defensively so, but his first impression was that there was something ascetic about him. He looked like a man who did not eat enough—his cheeks were hollow, his shoulders slightly stooped, his skin sallow. Patrick’s hands, long fingered and tanned by the sun, seemed incongruous when holding a small teacup decorated with yellow roses. As he sat, his eyes moved perpetually, apparently taking in the room. His gaze stopped at the portrait of a uniformed Digby and an odd expression, partly affection, Laurence thought, but tinged with some other, more complicated emotion, crossed his face.
    ‘Old Digby,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s certainly not the same place without Digby. Or, indeed, my father. Back then the whole place hummed. They’d be out with the guns, riding to hounds, throwing dances, hatching glorious schemes—mostly disastrous—going on escapades and excursions, with cavalry men, racing drivers, actors, bounders, swooning girls. My father’s style was consuming prodigious quantities of champagne, while a queue formed at the back door of tailors, local traders, blacksmiths, wine merchants and irate husbands wanting satisfaction. Digby just loved life and loved company. He hated being alone. And he had the sort of charm that could persuade a fish to fly.’
    Laurence wondered how Digby’s exuberant spirits had altered after Kitty disappeared.
    ‘And then he bagged a beautiful and rich wife,’ Patrick said, ‘and before he could get too bored—and he was never at his best when boredom set in, to be honest—a hero’s death.’
    After a very long pause while he drank his tea, he added, ‘I miss him. He made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. Still, Mr Bartram, to be frank it’s better the estate be in the hands of Lydia and the loyal Julian.’ He made a rueful face, defusing his slight sharpness. ‘That’s if there was